Brought up as I was to ask of the weather
Whether it was fair or overcast,
Here, at least, it is a pretty morning,
The first fine day as I am told in months.
I took a path that led down to the beach,
Reflecting as I went on landscape, sex, and weather.
I met a welcome wonderful enough
To exorcise the educated ghost
Within me. No, this country is not haunted,
Onle the rain makes spectres of the mountains.
There they are, and there somehow is the problem
Not exactly of fredom or of generation
But just of living and the pain it causes.
Sometimes I think the air we breathe is mortal
And dies, trapped, in our unfeeling lungs.
Not too distant the mountains and the morning
Dropped their dim approval on the gesture
With which enthralled I greeted all this grandeur.
Besid the path, half buried in the bracked,
Stood a long-abandoned concrete bunker,
A little temple of lust, its rough walls covered
With religious frieze and votary inscription.
Personally I know no one who doesn’t suffer
Some sore of guilt, and mostly bedsores, too,
Those that come from scratching where it itches
And that dangerous sympathy called prurience.
Buat all about release and absolution
Lie, in the waves that lap the dirty shingle
And the mountains that rise at hand above the rain.
Though I had forgotten it could be so simple,
A beauty of sorts is nearly always within reach.